


In From The Cold

by sidneycarter



Category: Father Brown (2013)
Genre: A Nice Warm Bath, Christmas, Fluff, Found Family, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sid Washes Sullivan's Hair, frequently jumping povs because i cannot write, hercule flambeau makes mince pies, side felicia/flambeau briefly hinted at/mentioned at points, sullivans dad is AWFUL, sullivans father is a bad father, the father brown gang play cluedo, very brief mentions of minor injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:09:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28300653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidneycarter/pseuds/sidneycarter
Summary: It's Christmas Eve and Inspector Sullivan is missing.
Relationships: Sid Carter/Inspector Sullivan
Comments: 10
Kudos: 35





	In From The Cold

**Author's Note:**

> the christmas fic is here!!! with about 5 mins to spare til Christmas day woops! 
> 
> i hope you enjoy this fic! merry christmas if u celebrate!   
> please excuse any spelling/grammar or the fact that this fic is just gooey mess thats not very good. 
> 
> please be aware there are discussions about period-typical homophobia, and sullivan quotes the use of the 'q' word as a slur. this only happens once, but please be aware! this fic is in general a fluffy fic about found family and being loved at christmas, so i wouldn't want anyone to be upset. everyone in the father brown gang is fully loving and accepting. 
> 
> love to you all my babies!!!!

Christmas is a good time of year, Sid thinks. Christmases at Montague are always the best. 

Everyone is already lazing about in their pyjamas even though it’s precisely 5:32pm. He’s also nicked the best spot in the armchair by the fireplace of Montague House’s most cushy drawing room. 

The house has been beautifully decorated, all by Felicia’s own hand, and Sid could stare at the twinkling lights and shiny ornaments on the Christmas tree for hours. 

Their evenings so far have been filled with good food, board games, cards and dancing. Even Flambeau, a man somewhat addicted to thrill, has yet to find himself bored. 

To top it all off, Sid has been allowed access to a box of Turkish Delights, and it sits in his lap as he gorges himself silly. 

Tonight, as it’s Christmas Eve, is a little quieter, with most of the servants having been given the night off in preparation for the big day tomorrow. Sid heart swells a little as he looks around the room at his family while _White Christmas_ crackles through the wireless speakers.

Mrs McCarthy knits quietly, checking her pattern every now and then, before grinning with pride as her cardigan takes shape. Felicia and Flambeau have just become engaged in an intense game of chess, which both of them are highly skilled at — Sid predicts it’ll be hours before one of them gives in. In the corner, Father Brown is reading some smutty comedy book, occasionally chuckling to himself as he turns the pages. 

Bunty is seated on the floor in front of Sid, peering at their game of tiddlywinks. She throws him a disgusted look as Sid squashes a bit of Turkish Delight between his fingers before pushing it into his mouth. “ _Blegh_. Turkish delight is horrid, you know.” 

She leans down so the table top is at eye level. 

Sid drops another lump into his mouth and grins, “You’ve just got an unrefined palate.” 

“Perhaps,” Bunty hums, before her wink drops straight into the pot. She cheers and reaches for her glass of sherry, “But what I lack in taste I make up for in tiddlywink skill.” 

Sid can’t deny her that, looking forlornly at his own pieces lying scattered across their table. “Are you sure you’re not cheating?” 

“Now, now, Sidney, would any niece of mine ever indulge in such treacherous behaviour as cheating?” Lady Felicia sing-songs over her shoulder as she sets about annihilating Flambeau’s defensive line. 

“ _Yes_ ,” Sid, Father Brown, and Mrs McCarthy chorus. 

Felicia and Bunty are not allowed to begin their vehement protests, as the hallway phone begins trilling. 

“Now just _who_ is calling at this hour, on Christmas Eve no less?” asks Mrs McCarthy, scandalised. 

“I’ll go.” Flambeau says, getting up with his whisky in hand. 

The hallway is chilly in comparison to the blazing warmth of the drawing room. Flambeau tucks his dressing gown around himself a little tighter and glares at the telephone inconveniencing them. He picks up the receiver with some curiosity. “Montague House. Flambeau speaking. May I help?” 

Of all the people he is expecting to hear on the other end, Sergeant Daniel Goodfellow is not high on the list. “Oh, erm, hello Mr. Flambeau, sir, I - I don’t suppose Father Brown is there, is he?” 

He sounds concerned, quite in contrast to Goodfellow’s usual sunny disposition. “He is,” Flambeau hums, “I’ll fetch him for you. Please hold.” 

Back in the drawing room, Flambeau finds that everyone has turned back to their activities. Only Father Brown looks up curiously as he enters, and the Father cocks his head as he’s beckoned to the phone. 

“A call for you, Father. Sergeant Goodfellow, of all people.” 

Father Brown frowns for a moment, before neatly placing his bookmark into his book and following Flambeau out into the hallway. Flambeau closes the door behind them to ensure quiet as the Father takes the call. 

“Sergeant Goodfellow? Good evening, is everything alright?” 

Goodfellow sounds hesitant. “Not quite, Father.”

“Go on.” 

“It’s— It’s the Inspector, Father. He — He’s in London, visiting his father you see, been gone for about a week now.” Goodfellow sighs, “Only, we had a telephone call from him earlier. About half eleven this morning, I think. He sounded worried, Father. _Scared_ , even. Said he was catching the train back home right away, but he wouldn’t say why. I asked him if he was alright, but he put the phone down before he answered.” 

“Hm. That does seem rather odd,” Father Brown ruminates. “But the Inspector is always a little reticent, isn’t he? Perhaps he’s just in at the police cottage for an early night?” 

“Well, that’s the thing, Father,” Goodfellow says. “Annie went round to the police cottage earlier. We wondered if he wanted to come round for dinner, given the long train journey back, and we wouldn’t want him being alone at Christmas. I mean, it’ll be a bit of a squeeze here at the minute, with Annie’s family staying, but he’s always welcome. Except… he wasn’t there, at the police cottage. Annie went all round the village, the pub, the shop, the inn - she even went looking at the Presbytery - and no one’s seen him since he left for London. Then she asked the signalman at the station, and he said the last train from Paddington came in over two hours ago. It just — It just doesn’t seem _right_ , Father.” 

Worry has already begun to descend upon Father Brown’s features. He communicates his concern to Flambeau with a frown, and Flambeau responds in kind with a curious raised eyebrow. 

“I fear you are right, Sergeant Goodfellow. It does seem rather strange. Thank you for letting me know, we’ll see if we can sort something out.” 

“Thank you, Father,” Goodfellow sounds genuinely relieved, “I know he’s been getting along better with you these past few months. And I know that—“ He lowers his voice conspiratorially, “I know that him and our young Sidney have been… I know that they’re close. I didn’t know who else to ask for help. You’ll let me know if you hear from him, won’t you?” 

Father Brown smiles, “As long as you will do the same.” 

“Of course, Father. Enjoy your evening. Merry Christmas” 

And with that, the Sergeant hangs up. Father Brown sits quietly for a moment, thinking. 

“Is there a problem, Father?” Flambeau hums. 

“I fear so…” Father Brown clasps his hands in his lap. “Inspector Sullivan is missing.” 

“Missing?”

“Yes…” The Father hums absentmindedly. He stands abruptly, and motions for Flambeau to follow him back into the drawing room. 

Their arrival at the doorway this time catches everyone’s attention, especially when the Father doesn’t proceed to his chair or reassure them that it was merely Sergeant Goodfellow wishing them all a Merry Christmas. 

Flambeau turns the wireless down, and Bing Crosby’s voice fades in to silence. 

“Is everything ok, Father Brown?” asks Bunty from the floor, propped up on her elbow. 

Father Brown purses his lips, and looks at them one by one. His eyes linger on Sid. “Well… Not quite.” 

Felicia looks immediately concerned. “Good gosh, is Sergeant Goodfellow alright? Has something happened?” 

“Ah. No. The sergeant is fine. It’s — well, it’s Inspector Sullivan.” 

Sid, having previously been slouched in his chair, sits bolt upright in an instant. 

The others politely pretend not to notice. 

Laying her knitting down beside her, Mrs McCarthy clutches her hands to her chest. “What about Inspector Sullivan?”

“He’s — we’re not entirely sure where he is.” Father Brown says, attempting to keep his voice calm and level. 

“He’s in London,” Sid replies matter-of-factly. “He’s visiting his family.”

“He _was_ in London,” Father Brown nods, “But he called Sergeant Goodfellow this morning and told him that he was returning home. Mrs Goodfellow went looking for him, but he _isn’t_ at home, he isn’t anywhere, and the last train came in without issue at three o’clock.” 

“So…” Sid’s voice has become eerily hollow, “Where is he then?” 

Flambeau looks out of the window with a frown on his face. “The bad weather’s drawing in. We’re due snow from six o’clock, possibly all night.” 

“I presume the Sergeant has checked all of the places he could be?” Bunty asks. “I know he’s not exactly the type to get hammered in the Red Lion but, well, it is Christmas?” 

“They’ve checked. No one has seen the Inspector since his departure to London.” 

No one seems to quite know what to say. 

Father Brown eyes Sid, who is alarmingly still and worryingly pale. 

“Well, we’ll have to go and look for him, won’t we?” Mrs McCarthy presses. “What if he’s trapped somewhere, and in this weather at that?” 

Felicia stands up purposefully, brushing biscuit crumbs off her silky dressing gown. “Do you have a plan, Father?” 

“Something of the sort,” Father Brown hums. “I think at first instance we should take advantage of our extensive motorcar collection and search the local area. Be on the lookout for anyone sheltering in the hedgerows.” 

Felicia nods, glancing at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. “I’ll telephone the watchmen. They should be out on their rounds as we speak. They can keep an eye on the edges of the estate.” 

Bunty hops to her feet. “I can take my car around the east side of the village.” 

“I was hoping Sid could drive me; we could take the North.” Father Brown says cautiously, keeping a close eye on Sid. 

Felicia purses her lips. “The Montague estate borders the south of the village, so if Hercule takes the west we should have most areas covered.” 

Flambeau nods, and the two of them share a moment of prolonged eye contact, as if having a second conversation that no one else in the room is privy to. 

“Lady Felicia and I will man the telephones here.” Mrs McCarthy trills. 

A ghost of a smile drifts across Sid’s face. Even in her nightie, with her hair in rollers, Mrs M is no less efficient than usual. 

The once peaceful Montague House then abruptly becomes a hive of activity, with everyone pulling heavy winter boots and wellingtons on and shrugging old coats over their nightwear. It takes a matter of moments before they’re hurrying out to their cars and racing off in to the night. 

Felicia watches the first snowflake drop onto the doorstep, and bites her lip. 

***

The next hour or so is an anxious wait. The phone doesn’t ring at all, and before they know it Bunty is trudging back up the steps to the main door. 

She shrugs off the heavy fur she’d pulled on over her pyjamas and shakes her head ruefully. “Nothing.” 

Flambeau returns a short while later, looking windswept and a little damp from the short walk from the car to the doorway. “No sign of anyone,” He says, putting an arm around Felicia reassuringly. 

“Well,” Mrs McCarthy hums, clutching her rosary tightly. “You never know, the Father and Sid might have found him by now.” 

The mood in the house is becomes beyond despondent when Sid and Father Brown return, also empty handed. 

“Is he here?” Sid says, bursting in to the drawing room and looking around frantically.

“I’m sorry, Sid.” Felicia mumbles by way of an answer. 

“Have we heard any more from Sergeant Goodfellow?” Father Brown adds hopefully. 

“Not a peep.” Bunty’s lips look odd pulled into a frown. 

Sid’s stomach is churning. “Are you sure we’ve looked everywhere? Did someone check the police cottage again? Did anyone asks the conductor if he saw anyone getting off before Kembleford maybe he’s— Oh I don’t know.” 

Sid throws himself into his armchair and sinks his head in his hands. 

Bunty lays a reassuring hand on his knee, looking helplessly around the room. “Perhaps we should try—“ 

Before she gets chance to finish her thought, the doorbell rings out with a mighty _ding-dong!_

There is a brief moment of silence where the room seems to freeze. 

“Do you think that’s—?” Mrs McCarthy begins. 

Flambeau puts down his drink purposefully before striding out of the room. 

Rapt silence falls over the drawing room as everyone listens intently for the sounds of the front door creaking open. 

The clock on the mantelpiece chimes cheerily in the stillness, and then— 

“Good God, Inspector Sullivan!?” They hear Flambeau cry. 

Sid bolts up from his seat like he’s been burnt and everyone is quick to follow. 

In the hallway, Flambeau is just helping a shivering Sullivan in from the cold, steadying him under the shoulder. 

The snow is swirling outside, and Sullivan looks horrifically damp and cold. 

“Tommy?” Sid hisses, brushing past Flambeau to cup Sullivan’s face in his hands. 

Sid turns white as a sheet when he sees the bruises and scratches blooming across Sullivan’s skin. “What the _hell_ happened?” 

Sullivan’s teeth only chatter in response. 

“Sid,” Father Brown says gently, resting a hand on Sid’s shoulder. “Sid? I think first we should get the Inspector in the warm, don’t you?” 

“Yeah, sorry.” Sid looks helplessly bewildered. “God, I just— are you alright? Come in, I—“ 

Sullivan looks a little overwhelmed as he’s caught up in the gaggle of concerned faces. The overcoat he’s wearing looks far too big for him, and Sid’s chest collapses in on itself when he sees how Sullivan pulls the sleeves down over his hands. 

“I-I’m sorry I don’t mean to intrude on Christmas Eve I just— I’m afraid I don’t have any other clothes either I—“ Sullivan babbles. 

“Nonsense,” Lady Felicia says hotly. “Montague’s doors are always open to friends. Don’t worry about your clothes either, we can sort something out.” 

“But they’re all wet and I— I don’t want to drip everywhere.” Sullivan sounds panicked, vaguely pointing at the droplets he’s splashing onto the black and white tiles. 

Father Brown is again a voice of calm in the chaos. “Inspector, that is nothing a quick mop won’t fix,” He turns to everyone else, “I think in the first instance it would be best if we could run a hot bath for Inspector Sullivan and get him some warm pyjamas to wear. I’m sure he’s had a very long day so he will need a little rest before he tells us all about it.” 

He gives Lady Felicia _a look,_ which she understands immediately. She turns to Sullivan and smiles warmly.“Mrs M and I will sort out some food and a hot drink for you, Inspector. Hercule has plenty of clothes for you to wear, we’ll find something.” 

“He can wear some of mine.” Sid interjects just a tad too quickly. 

“Yes, yes, of course,” Lady Felicia says, suppressing a smile. “Sidney, darling, would you take the Inspector to the bathroom down the hall?” She begins to chivvy them along, motioning for everyone to disappear back into the drawing room. 

Sid is sure she hears her hissing _“Give them some space!”_ before she’s pushing the door open to the huge blue themed bathroom and waving Sullivan in. 

Sullivan is blushing hotly, still feeling guilty for his intrusion. His feelings are only confirmed when he’s met with the luxury of the bathroom. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen a bath tub that big before, and his mouth nearly drops open. 

“Keep an eye on him Sid, won’t you?” Felicia calls over her shoulder as she shuts the door behind them. 

The silence seems deafening as they’re finally left alone. 

Both Sid and Sullivan stand awkwardly, not knowing what to do with themselves. 

Sullivan’s coat drips steadily on to the floor, and Sid watches the puddles form. 

At that moment Sid’s brain seems to shift into gear. “Oh!” He springs into action, leaping forward to turn on the hot tap of the roll top bath in the centre of the room. 

Steam balloons into the air and Sullivan shivers again. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself, like the shock of it’s finally setting in. 

“Come ‘ere,” Sid murmurs softly, easing the sodden greatcoat from Sullivan’s shoulders. 

“Thank you,” Sullivan whispers, grateful to have the heavy, cold weight taken off him. He goes to start undressing himself further, but finds his fingers are numb and shaking, and he can’t quite find purchase on the buttons. 

Sid brushes his hands aside gently and Sullivan’s ears turn pink. 

Sid tries not to startle him, moving slowly and cautiously like you would approaching a skittish animal. He also tries not to be affected by the slight whimper that escapes Sullivan’s throat as Sid’s fingers brush against his skin. 

Once the braces have been slipped off and Sullivan’s shirt is unbuttoned all the way, Sid’s hands instinctively reach for Sullivan’s trousers. 

Sullivan seems to be shaken back to life, and taps Sid’s hands away sharply. “Thank you, Carter, I’m sure I can manage.” 

Sid lips quirk momentarily. “Carter? Haven’t heard that in a while.” 

Sullivan gives him a withering look but much to Sid’s relief there’s a smile hidden in there somewhere too. 

On one hand, the familiar return of Sullivan’s snark is reassuring. On the other, it’s a clear indicator of Sullivan building up his walls again. They’ve talked about it before - about Sullivan’s use of emotional distancing to protect himself when he’s starting to feel too much. 

Resolving not to push him on it for now, Sid holds his hands up and grins. “I’ll leave you to it.”

While Sullivan undresses the rest of the way, Sid checks the temperature of the bathwater and rather haphazardly slings a load of Lady F’s fancy bath salts in. They infuse the steam with a sugary, comforting smell, and they turn the water a light, rosy pink. “It’s ready if you’d like to—“ 

Sid’s sentence is cut off by a very undignified squeak from Sullivan. 

“Don’t turn around! Close your eyes!” Sullivan hisses. 

“Sorry, sorry.” Sid smirks, turning away and slapping his hands over his eyes. If the situation were a little different, he might be of the mind to comment that really, the sight of Sullivan preparing for a bath isn’t very shocking given that they know each other rather _intimately_ by this point. 

But Sullivan still seems tense, so Sid allows him his protests and only turns around again once he’s been given permission. 

Sullivan is sitting in the pink water, frowning, with his knees pulled up to his chest. He looks for all the world like a disgruntled little kitten and Sid feels warmth bloom across his chest. He doesn’t voice that thought out loud, however, on fear that Sullivan would _literally_ kill him. 

Instead he wanders over and brushes his knuckles softly down the side of Sullivan’s face. “ _Relax,_ ” He murmurs. 

“I _am_ relaxed,” Sullivan says through clearly gritted teeth. 

Sid chuckles softly and taps him on the shoulder, encouraging him to lean back in the bath tub. “Here, look, I’ll wash your hair for you.” 

Sullivan looks like he needs a hour long massage, and reluctantly stretches out, letting his eyes slip closed. 

Sid picks up the shower hose and tests the water against his wrist. Finding it not to be too hot, he runs it gently over Sullivan’s scalp. 

Sullivan shivers as the water cascades down on him, and Sid can almost see his shoulders loosen infinitesimally. 

Sid reaches across and picks up the first bottle of fancy shampoo he can lay his hands on. 

He squints at the writing, only to find it’s in very swirly French. He feels momentarily guilty as he tips probably far too much out into his hand. Flambeau had brought it over from Paris as a birthday gift for Felicia, and Sid doesn’t dare think about how expensive it is. 

He sets to work slowly massaging the shampoo into Sullivan’s scalp, breathing in the balmy aroma of vanilla, honey and sweet almonds. 

Sullivan doesn’t say anything, but occasionally lets out little moans when Sid hits a nice spot. 

Sid considers some of the sounds frankly obscene, but reminds himself to think with his brain rather than any other part of his body as he works the soap into a generous lather. 

He’s just kneading behind Sullivan’s ears when Sullivan finally speaks again. “I suppose you’re wondering what happened,” He croaks softly. 

Sid looks down at him, at his closed eyes and still ever-so-slightly tense body, and shakes his head. “I am, but I’m not bothered if you don’t want to tell me. You don’t have to.” 

“No,” Sullivan hums, reaching up to run a finger along Sid’s wrist. “I want to tell you. It’s only fair.” 

Sid falls silent, letting Sullivan speak in his own time. 

“I went to visit father for Christmas,” He begins, taking a deep breath in through his nose. “I was due to stay until at least after Boxing Day but… well.” 

Sid picks up the shower head again and rests his hand against Sullivan’s forehead to shield his eyes from the soap. 

“He, um,” Sullivan’s voice wobbles. 

Sid feels his heart drop. 

“He was, as usual, unimpressed by me,” Sullivan starts again, swallowing thickly. “I told him about solving the MacMurray case, and the Rawlings case, and all the commendations - I didn’t mention Father Brown’s help as I didn’t think that would go down well, so I hope he won’t mind, but—“ 

“He won’t mind at all,” Sid hums, gently stroking stray suds away from Sullivan’s ears. “Father Brown doesn’t do these things for the credit, and neither do you most of the time. It’s only your father who’s like that.” 

“I suppose,” Sullivan sighs. His eyelids flutter, like he’s considering opening them to look at Sid, but finds he can’t. “As it happens, my father wasn’t all that taken by _any_ of my recent work. Apparently I should have been promoted already, several times at least, and I don’t think village bobby fits his delusions of grandeur.” 

Sid snorts derisively. 

“I… It was alright when we were just talking about work. I know he’ll never be satisfied by anything I do so I was… I was almost expecting it. But he… he started to ask about my… home life and I—“ Sullivan’s voice tapers off thinly. 

Sid’s hands freeze. 

“I didn’t— I didn’t _say_ anything or _confirm_ anything but…” Sullivan’s voice cracks, “He alluded to the fact that I… I seem like I could almost be interested in men. The way I have no wife, no girlfriend, and haven’t had anything of the sort for years. I… I couldn’t bring myself to openly deny it anymore, not since— not after—“ Sullivan at last opens his eyes and looks up at Sid. 

Sid knows. He knows what he’s trying to say and he feels it just as deeply. _Not after you_. It scares him a little, knowing just how far Sullivan is under his skin. He knows that if he were questioned too, he’d probably do the same.

“I think… I think it made him suspicious. I— I’ve never known him shout like that. He _screamed_ just at the thought of it. I heard every last little thing he thinks of someone like me and I… I couldn’t stand it anymore. I didn’t even think and I just grabbed the first coat on the rack and ran. Straight out the door, straight to Paddington Station. He was even screaming at me on the doorstep, you know. Not anything that would… give it away, but enough to let me know that I’m disappointing enough as it is and if _god forbid_ I was a damned _queer_ then—“ 

Tears slip down Sullivan’s cheeks. 

Sid brushes them away with a shaky hand. Inside he’s absolutely _raging_. He’s livid at the thought of this pathetic excuse for a man making Sullivan, his own _son,_ feel like that. He can’t bring himself to speak. His rage isn’t for Sullivan, and Sullivan doesn’t need to hear it, at least not like this, not now. For now Sullivan needs to know that he’s loved and that his father is so, so wrong. 

Sid leans down and presses a gentle, upside down kiss to Sullivan’s lips. “I love you. So much.” 

Sullivan gasps a shaky breath and swipes at his tears. “Sorry, I—“ He hiccups softly and Sid presses another kiss to his cheek. 

“I got on the last train home,” Sullivan continues, “But I didn’t have any of my belongings, I didn’t have any way of paying for a cab and I… I needed to go on a walk anyway. To clear my head. Only night started to set in and I… I got a little bit lost and I… I sat in a ditch for a little while, trying to get my bearings. I got all battered and bruised climbing through hedgerows. Eventually I realised that I must be near the Montague estate, and the snow was coming down and I just… I didn’t know where else to go.” 

“You’re always welcome here,” Sid says firmly. “Always.” 

“I— I don’t think father will say anything,” Sullivan says hesitantly, his mind spilling out thoughts. “I don’t think he’d want it to get out, if he really suspects that I… am interested in men. But I— I can’t help but think about what would happen if…” 

Sid shakes his head. “Don’t think about that now. You’re right, he wouldn’t say anything, I don’t think.” Sid cannot hide the acid in his voice. The words he would like to say to that man. “You’re here now and that’s what matters. Let’s get you warm and dry.” 

Sid picks up a soft, fluffy towel from the towel rail and carefully wrings the water out of Sullivan’s hair. He’s just about to offer Sullivan a larger towel so he can get out of the bath when a knock resounds from the door. 

“I’ll get it.” Sid says, chucking his knuckles under Sullivan’s chin. “Love you,” He whispers again, just for good measure. 

Sid opens the door only fractionally and uses his body to fill the gap, intent on keeping Sullivan away from prying eyes. 

Felicia is at the door with a neatly folded pile of clothes. She thrusts the pile towards him. “As requested, a spare set of _your_ pyjamas for the Inspector. I’ve brought one of Hercule’s robes that he never wears, if that’s _quite_ _alright by you_.” She’s teasing him, clearly so, and Sid could nearly cry with how full of affection his chest is. 

“Thank you very much,” He says, taking the bundle from her hands. 

“Mrs M’s just dishing up so leftover stew if the Inspector’s hungry, and we’re about to start dishing out the mince pies.” She winks at him and walks away with brisk efficiency. 

Sullivan’s stomach audibly grumbles as Sid closes the door and they both laugh. 

“Come on, you,” Sid sing-songs, dropping the bundle on his chair. “Get these on. We’ll dry you off by the fire.” 

***

There is an air of careful nonchalance when Sid and Sullivan enter the drawing room. 

No one wishes to pry, and they want to make it clear that Sullivan is under no obligation to tell them anything at all. The only problem is everyone _does_ want to fuss over Sullivan, and so the result is all rather hectic. 

“Inspector!” Mrs McCarthy cries, bundling over with her stew in a small crock pot with a lid. “Here you go, please, eat up, we don’t want you going hungry now.” 

“Yes, Inspector, you must eat, but also please do come and sit down! Right here look we’ve pulled an armchair out for you—“

“Come and play tiddlywinks with Sid and I, Inspector! You can be on my team and—“ 

“I’m sorry for just barging in like this,” Sullivan blurts loudly, his grip tightening on his stew. 

“ _No_ ,” Sid says firmly, shuffling closer behind him and pressing his fingers into Sullivan’s waist, “None of that.” 

“Quite right, Sid.” Father Brown echoes. “Now I think once again it’s best that we let the Inspector sit down and enjoy his meal, don’t you?” 

Sullivan looks defeated and slightly embarrassed as everyone except the Father hurries around back to their seats. “Thank you,” He gestures vaguely around himself. “Thank you for all of this.” 

“Inspector, it’s absolutely nothing, I assure you. Do come and sit down, would you like a drink? We have a rather delightful Christmassy hot chocolate warming on the fire.” 

“Yes, please.” Sullivan murmurs as Sid pulls him away from the indicated chair beside Mrs McCarthy and guides him into the armchair he’d been sitting in earlier. 

While it is quite big and very comfy, Sullivan isn’t certain it was made for two people. That doesn’t seem to deter Sid, however, who merely pulls Sullivan half into his lap and tucks a soft, tartan blanket up under his chin. 

“There,” Sid says with a satisfied grin on his face. 

Flambeau offers Sullivan a mince pie. “They’re my specialty, you know, very popular.” 

“I didn’t know you could bake?” Sullivan says hesitantly. 

“Oh yes,” Flambeau grins, “I studied for a year at the Cordon Bleu in my younger years. When I was in between jobs, you see.” 

“In between… jobs?” 

“Yes,” Flambeau hums thoughtfully, “If I remember rightly it was between the short stint as a Venetian gondolier and an even shorter stint at the Moulin Rouge.” 

“Oh.” 

“They’re not poisoned, I promise.” Flambeau adds cheerily with a wink, “I don’t mix my hobbies like that.” 

With that, he whisks off to take up his chess match with Felicia again. 

Sullivan looks suspiciously at the mince pie, but upon noticing Father Brown scoffing the first of four in his hand, he decides not to palm it off on Sid and rests it on the arm of the chair for later. 

“ _The Moulin Rouge_?” Sullivan hisses to Sid. 

Sid chuckles and takes a sip of his hot chocolate. “Apparently Flambeau was fired after about two weeks because he was too _popular_ … had women, and a few men mind you, queueing round the corner to catch a glimpse.” 

Sullivan looks at Flambeau with a newfound respect. “I see.” 

***

Once Sullivan has had time for a little rest and and some food, he does provide everyone with a brief summary of evening’s events, sparing most of the gory details but including enough to get the point across. 

Sid can feel the anger radiating from everybody, and it makes his chest ache. He wonders if Sullivan’s ever been around this many people who truly care for him before. 

Sullivan looks slightly uncertain as he continues telling his story, and Sid just squeezes his hand under his blanket as support. 

“I don’t mean to— I know this kind of erratic behaviour doesn’t reflect well on the force and I know that my father is… I know his feelings about me and I just… I’m starting to like Kembleford. I like being here and I like my work and I… I suppose I was just _worried_ that that could all be taken away from me.” Sullivan drops his head and looks up at Sid nervously under his eyelashes. 

Bunty has been listening intensely by the fireplace, and as Sullivan falls silent she speaks. “Have you ever heard of Lord Stanley Mulwich-Gilkes, Inspector?” Her tone indicates nothing but pure mischief, and the smirk on her face does nothing to allay his fears.

“He’s… the Chief of Police.” Sullivan looks at her oddly.

“Yes,” She says with a twinkle in her eye, “And as it happens I’m also his favourite goddaughter. He’s putty in my hands.” 

Felicia’s eyes brighten. “Oh, Stanley, of course! I went to school with his wife,” She grins into her drink, “Darling Minnie and I had so much fun tormenting our boarding house mistress. We still write often.” 

“If losing your job is something you’re worrying about, Inspector, then really I wouldn’t.” Bunty grins. 

“I couldn’t possibly ask you to—“ 

“Inspector Sullivan,” Felicia says plainly, putting down her glass of sherry and fixing him with a warm but steely glare. “How many times must we remind you that in this family we look after one and another. Now,” She raises her finger, “Don’t even begin to claim that you are not one of this family because _plainly_ you are.” She gives a very pointed look towards Sullivan and Sid’s cuddly embrace. 

Sullivan tenses slightly, but feels Sid snort beside him and suddenly he doesn’t worry so much. 

“We do not close doors on people we love here,” Mrs McCarthy adds haughtily. “Lady Felicia is quite right.” 

“Naturally,” Felicia beams. 

Sid would pay good money to see the choice words Lady F and Mrs M would say to Sullivan’s father. Hell hath no fury. He’d like to see Bunty’s response too, but he feels that would probably involve less talking and more… hitting people with her car. 

“That goes for both the doors of the Church and the Presbytery, too,” Father Brown states firmly. “God is loving and kind to _all_ of his children.” 

Sullivan looks a little teary, curling his fingers into the blanket. 

Sid swipes under his eye to catch some stray tears, and hooks his chin on Sullivan’s shoulder. 

They share a quiet moment them. It’s just a few seconds of eye contact, a short check-in to let each other know that they’re there. For a moment, they forget that the rest of the room is watching. Sid softly kisses Sullivan’s temple, and they both smile. 

“Right then,” Felicia says purposefully, less than subtly dabbing underneath her own eyes, “I think it’s about time that we settled in for the Christmas Eve Board Game Extravaganza!” 

A great cheer erupts and for the first time in several hours the wireless crackles back into life. 

Outside the snow keeps falling as Felicia and Bunty fight over Miss Scarlet, Mrs McCarthy plumps for Mrs Peacock, and Father Brown cheerily picks Reverend Green. Flambeau chooses Professor Plum, and Sid and Sullivan team up as Colonel Mustard. In the end, Felicia indulges her niece, and chooses Mrs White. 

“I think you’d look rather dashing in a maid’s outfit, Felicia.” Flambeau smirks behind his whisky, ducking smoothly as Felicia throws a pillow at his head. 

Sid looks around the room and feels that he was right. Christmas really is a good time of the year. It’s especially good when you have a family like this by your side. He just hopes Sullivan realises that this is for him too. 

Sid squeezes Sullivan’s waist, presses a kiss behind his ear, and leans forward to take his first roll of the dice. 

**Author's Note:**

> bunty windermere hits homophobes with her car and that's on merry christmas. 
> 
> thank you for reading, love to u bbies xxx


End file.
